


as you wish, as you like

by Anonymous



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Needs A Hug, Inspired by Princess Bride, M/M, The Princess Bride References, brought to you by me hyperfixating!, idk there’s too many references, princess bride au?, that’s a tag? that’s a tag!, wait that’s a tag? dear god
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-26 19:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30110850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Raoul de Changy is not what one would call a particularly proud man.So when his fiancée's life is in danger, he volunteers himself instead.And the Phantom listens.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé, Raoul de Chagny/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

“Free her! Do what you like,” Raoul yells, “only free her! Have you no pity?”

”Your lover makes a passionate plea,” the Phantom of the Opera, a murderer, a ghost, a _man_ , snarls.

”Please, Raoul, it’s useless,” Christine sighs.

”I love her!” Raoul calls, gripping the bars of the portcullis blocking him from his poor Little Lotte. “Does that mean nothing? I love her! Show some compassion!”

”The world showed no compassion to me!” 

The Phantom laughs cruelly and grips Christine’s arm tighter, dragging her along the floor. 

“Christine, Christine... let me see her!”

”Be my guest, sir!” The Phantom cackles, throwing Christine to the ground and pulling some hidden lever. 

Raoul rushes to Christine the second the portcullis gives him enough space to duck under it. “Are you alright?” he whispers, gently grabbing her hands.

She shivers, and he pulls her closer to him, checking for a steady pulse, reassuring himself that she’s there, she’s still there. 

“Raoul,” she sobs. 

“It’s alright, it’s alright.”

”Please, don’t.”

”I’m here, it’s alright. Shh,” he murmurs, holding her as tightly as he dares, rocking softly. 

The Phantom is saying something behind them, presumably monologuing in that infuriating way of his.

(This was, of course, long after monologues were invented. Most things came after monologues. In fact, when man first clambered from the slime, after paying his taxes and making stew, he monologued to his stew bowl about how sad it was that he’d eaten all the stew.)

He says something, something that Raoul cannot care about, not when Christine is so scared, so hurt, clinging desperately to him.

And then he feels the rope, feels the Phantom’s gloves brushing against his face as the noose is looped around his neck, feels the burn as he’s abruptly pulled away from Christine, tugged to his feet, hanging ever so slightly above the ground.

”Order your fine horses now!” the Phantom taunts, tightening the rope, and Raoul’s mind flashes back to that disastrous showing of Il Muto six months ago and the sweet moments he and Christine had shared on the rooftop afterwards.

Christine’s sobbing even harder now, eyes red and glassy. 

“Raise up your hand to the level of your eyes!” the Phantom- no, he is a man, nothing but a man- mocks, mimicking Madame Giry’s frantic instructions. “Nothing can save you now, except perhaps- Christine!”

At the mention of her name, Christine sits up and wipes away her tears, crawling closer to Raoul. 

“Start a new life with me!” he demands, turning to Christine and holding out the end of the rope tantalizingly. “Buy his freedom with your love! Refuse me and you send your lover to his death! This is the choice! This is the point of no return!” 

“The tears I might have shed for your dark fate,” Christine says, voice trembling and uncertain, “grow cold and turn to tears of hate!”

”Christine, forgive me, please forgive me,” Raoul cries, unsure how he can even still breathe, let alone talk. “I did it all for you and all for nothing!”

”Farewell, my fallen idol and false friend!” Christine continues, voice growing stronger and speaking over him. “We had such hopes, now those hopes are shattered!”

”Too late for turning back now,” the Phantom sneers, “too late for prayers and useless pity.”

“Say you love him and my life is over,” Raoul declares, for really, he’s never been good at anything other than loving Christine, and if she doesn’t love him back, there’s not much point in living.

The Phantom speaks over him too. “Past all hope of light or hell, no point in fighting!”

”For either way you choose, he has to win!”

”For either way you choose, you cannot win!” 

They say it together, and the Phantom glares at him before continuing.

“So do you end your days with me, or do you send him to his grave?”

”Why make her lie to you to save me?” Raoul spits. “And really, you know, you could act like I’m actually here. It’s my life on the line, after all.”

”Your life?” the Phantom hisses. “You are willing to die for her.”

”Naturally,” Raoul says, adjusting the rope as much as he can. “And I’m terribly sorry to ruin the moment, my apologies.”

Christine reaches out for him, fingers trembling desperately. 

“Do as you like,” he says. “Like I said before. Do as you like, but please, in the name of whatever it is you find good in this world, let her go free.”

“Do as I like, little Vicomte? You could not handle what I’d like. Not to mention that it certainly doesn’t involve you- living, that is.”

”Please! Let her go!”

”Raoul, Raoul, no! Please, don’t- don’t sacrifice yourself for me!” Christine begs, pulling herself up and grabbing his arm. “Don’t die for my sake!”

”You’re very noble, Angel,” the Phantom smirks, watching with what seems like a cruel amusement. 

“Don’t call me that! You were the Angel of Music!” Christine shouts. “You deceived me. I gave my mind blindly. Tell me, Angel, who deserves this?”

”I have deserved this-“ and the Phantom tugs on the rope “-many times over. Do not dare to dream of what a demon like me could do to earn this and more.”

”Let her go,” Raoul whimpers, scratching desperately at the rope.

The sound of voices far ahead reaches them. 

“Do as you like, please, only let Christine go.”

The Phantom glares at him, then at Christine, who shudders. 

“Fine! Leave, then. Leave and forget all of this. Forget me, forget all that has happened. Go!” he shouts, shoving open a mirror to reveal a passage.

”Go!” he yells again.

”I’ll come back for you,” Christine says. Her voice cracks. “I promise.”

”But-“

”This is true love,” she smiles through the tears, embracing him one last time. “You think this happens every day?”

Raoul breathes in her scent one final time and presses a kiss to her hair. “Good-bye, then, Little Lotte.”

”If I lose my scarf again, will you fetch it for me?” she whispers.

”Anything for you, darling. I love you.”

”Go!” the Phantom screams, grabbing Christine’s arm and yanking her away from Raoul, shoving her towards the passageway. “Don’t let them find you!”

Raoul hangs for a long while after Christine leaves, he thinks, before anything happens. 

“Er- you are going to do something with me, right? And the mob?”

”They’re lost,” the Phantom says brusquely. “Only I and Giry know the path down here, and she wouldn’t dare to lead them down.”

”If you say so.”

Silence falls again for a long time.

It could be days, or hours, but from Raoul’s best guesses, he’s left standing on the very tips of his toes for far too long, with the now-familiar burn of rope around his neck.

Finally, the Phantom stands from the organ where he’s been sitting and watching.

”Now,” he begins, “what to do with you?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Please,” the vicomte says, voice scratchy and pained, letting every emotion slip through. “Don’t kill me. I need to live.”

”You said-“

”As you like, I know. But Christine did promise to save me, and I’d certainly hate to disappoint her.”

Erik snarls. The little fop had struck home, hit a spot he knew would help him. 

“You seem awfully certain that she’ll return, Monsieur,” he spits, stalking close to where his victim still dangles. 

“But you don’t have to kill me. I could- oh! I could be your servant, your valet!”

”Do continue,” Erik says, allowing the sarcasm to drip from the sentence.

The vicomte doesn’t catch onto the sarcasm. “I could work for you, keep everything organized, cook, like that.”

”Hmm.”

It could be worth it, Erik reasons with himself. 

“Well, I’ve never had a valet before. Go scrub the boat clean. I’d like to see it shine by the time you’re done. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning, though.”

The infuriating vicomte grins cheerfully as Erik burns through the rope and shoves a rag into his hands. 

A rope around his ankle tied to a beam in the foundation of the house keeps the new valet from escaping, and Erik watches in satisfaction as he trips several times on his way to the boat. 

It’s very pleasing, seeing the failure of a man slave at his command, watching him stumble and trip and drop his rag. 

When Erik is shown the results by a triumphant, if somewhat sweaty and dirty, vicomte, he can see details that haven’t been visible for years. 

Perhaps he’ll keep the insufferable prat alive for a little longer.

"Hmm," he chooses to say instead. "I suppose that's not terrible. Get to work cleaning the walls, then. I want them spotless before dawn. I'll most likely kill you in the morning anyway."

The vicomte nods and sets to work, apparently ready to do whatever Erik says.

 _He does not deserve Christine_ , a little voice says in the back of his head.

 _Neither do I_.

Erik, satisfied with the knots on the rope keeping the vicomte from escaping, decides to sleep that night.

It is a bad decision, as all his most recent ones seem to have been.

Nightmares plague him, as usual, but this time Christine haunts him more than usual, her tender touch turning terrible and callous as she leaves him time after time again, letting him rot by himself in the horror of his own self-made hells.

Needless to say, he is awake far before dawn.

The vicomte is too.


	3. Chapter 3

Raoul scrubs.

There's not much to it, he just wipes away layers of grime with a dirty cloth and tries his very best to get as little of the dirt on him as possible.

He's not very successful.

He hears the voice before anything else.

"Have you truly worked all this night, Vicomte?"

Raoul doesn't reply, only scrubbing a bit harder.

"Incredible. You seem to have finally learned something in life."

"Well, yes," he says quietly, still scrubbing, "I have. For example, did you know that those crates over there take up much less space when you stack them closer together?"

A pause.

Soft footsteps.

Raoul scrubs.

"Hmm."

He scrubs.

"For once in your pathetic life, you're actually right about something."

"I suppose you're going to kill me now?"

"I suppose."

Raoul keeps scrubbing.

He isn't quite done with the area yet, and he is a man of his word, so he keeps working away until he can proudly say he's finished.

"You really intend to do the best you can, hmm, Monsieur?"

"I always do."

A chuckle comes from behind him.

"It's nearly dawn, Monsieur."

"I'm nearly finished," Raoul snaps back.

A sharp inhale of air.

He keeps scrubbing, working away at the last devious bit of dirt.

Finally, he sits back, hands rubbed raw and cloth probably irreparably dirty.

His attempts to keep the dirt off him were clearly unsuccessful, and he's really rather tired, but he keeps his head high.

"You're finished?"

Raoul nods.

"Very well."

He sits and waits to die.

He's often thought of death, back when he was a sailor, but he never really expected to get close to it like he is now.

"Why are you sitting there, little vicomte? If you want to eat today, you must surely cook yourself breakfast."

"I checked last night," Raoul says, voice little more than a whisper. "Your pantry is empty."

"Is it? How dreadful. Perhaps you shall have to eat a spider, then."

"Surely you must have money to buy food."

The Phantom laughs. "As if I could ever dare to venture out in public. Oh no, Monsieur, if you want food, you will buy it yourself."

"How?" Raoul challenges. "There's not a grocery stall in sight, my fine fellow. Or do you keep one of those down here as well, hidden among your various machines?"

He immediately senses that he's perhaps stepped a little too far out of line and waits for death again.

"Very well," the Phantom says, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You shall go to the market and buy what you need."

"What a change of heart."

"People will wonder if you completely vanish. Come, now, we must be off."

"You are coming too?" 

A cold, vice-like grip lands on Raoul's shoulder and pulls him to his feet. 

"You surely did not expect to wander about unsupervised, Monsieur. What scandal it should cause!"

"Well, you're certainly not sending me out tied to a post like I am now."

"If you try me any more," the Phantom hisses, "perhaps I shall."

Raoul stumbles as the Phantom pushes him up flights of stairs and passageways he didn’t even know existed within the opera house, until finally, they exit through a small and hidden door. 

Sunlight spills onto them, stunning him slightly, and by the time he blinks enough to clear his eyes of the bright daylight, the vise-like grip is gone, and the terrible sensation of being watched is back.

”Don’t try to run,” a voice hisses in his ear. “I am watching.”

”Noted. Err, I don’t mean to be rude, Monsieur Phantom, but... money?”

A leather object is pressed into his hands. 

“Go,” the voice hisses. “Get what you need. You have thirty minutes.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Thank you.”

Erik gives the vicomte a shove into the streets, melting into the shadows as usual. 

The bastard recovers far too quickly and hurriedly trots off towards the market, wallet tight in his grasp. 

He is far too cheerful for Erik’s taste.

He’ll kill the man after breakfast. 

“Bonjour!” the fool calls to the people who pass him on his happy stroll down the streets. “How are you?”

It’s mind-numbingly stupid. 

Erik ducks into alleyways and behind shops whenever he can, keeping as out of sight as possible, still tracking the vicomte.

The disaster of a valet finally makes it to the market, and, cheerful as ever, immediately purchases six eggs, although he complains about the price.

Perhaps Erik should cut out his tongue. He’d certainly never complain again.

But to rid someone of their voice is something even Erik, who values music so much, refuses to stoop to.

He does have some morals, after all. Refraining from murder only leaves the list of unacceptable offenses upon occasion.

Even monsters like him must have some rules to follow in their pathway to hell.

The vicomte soon adds peppers and some leafy green thing to his list of purchases, topping it all off with two bottles of wine.

Erik scoffs silently.

Liquor is something he does have. He’s not completely degenerate, after all, even if polite society- or any society, really- doesn’t care for him.

 _Of course some stupid beast like you would have wine but not food_ , his brain sighs bitterly. 

The fop of a vicomte is done now, and is anxiously peering into every shadow around him.

Erik has to bite back a chuckle as he even glances into the shadows between his packages of food.

”This way, Monsieur,” he hisses, just barely loud enough for the brain-dead moron to hear him. “Follow me.”

”Wha-“

”Over here.”

It’d certainly be much easier to kill the ignorant ass and be done with it.

 _But_ , Erik thinks as he leads the vicomte back to the Opera Populaire, _Christine’d be awfully disappointed in you if you killed him._

Christine was, though, without a doubt, the only thing keeping the disappointing boy alive. 

Erik pulls the door to the opera house open and shoves the fool inside, stalking down the passageways while tightly squeezing the man’s shoulder. 

“Ow,” the pathetic brat says. “You could squeeze a little less tightly.”

He grips a little tighter.

Spite is a wonderful game to play at.


	5. Chapter 5

Raoul winces. 

“Ow,” he says again.

The Phantom only grips tighter.

”If you keep doing that, you’re going to break my shoulder.”

The grip becomes tighter again. 

They keep walking down the shadowed stairs, walking in strange patterns to avoid traps, although Raoul suspects that the Phantom’d love nothing more than to let him get caught in one.

He shudders. 

The grip on his shoulder tightens. 

Finally, they arrive at the edges of the lake, and the Phantom casually, but with great force, throws Raoul into the boat.

”Ow,” he yelps as he hits the floor. “That hurt.”

”Keep talking,” the Phantom sneers, “and it will hurt more.”

Raoul shuts his mouth.

The boat arrives at the other shore far too slowly for his taste, and he’s very quick to climb out and onto the solid ground, scrambling to get to his feet. 

He is greeted by a rope being sharply thrown around his neck and very rudely yanked. 

“Hey!”

”Stop talking.”

Raoul frowns, turning to face the Phantom.

He looks remarkably terrifying, towering over him in the boat, black cloak and hat hiding everything but the terrible shine of the porcelain half-mask.

Well, it could be worse, Raoul decides as the Phantom stalks toward him. At least he’s rather handsome on the non-masked side.

The Phantom reaches for something under his cloak, and Raoul flinches.

But the ghost only pulls out the packages Raoul had so hastily placed into the boat and shoves him toward the kitchen.

”Make breakfast,” he hisses. “I’ll most likely kill you afterwards.”

”Your vote of confidence is overwhelming,” Raoul sighs, heading toward the kitchen. 

He hasn’t cooked much in his life, but he knows at least a few recipes by heart, and would consider himself good at making them if he considered himself good at anything other than failure.

Luckily, though, he does not fail at this.

”What is it?” the Phantom asks with a hint of disgust in his voice.

”Eggs!” Raoul promptly answers, smiling. “With peppers and spinach. I brought out your salt too.”

”I had salt? I thought you said my pantry was empty.”

”Of food, yes, but I can’t eat straight salt.”

”If this is terrible,” the Phantom snarls, “I’ll make you.”

”How very kind of you,” Raoul says sarcastically, splitting the meal into two. “Enjoy.”

The Phantom doesn’t eat, though. 

“I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

To prove it, Raoul takes a large bite of his own serving. 

“See? Delicious.”

It is good, although a bit heavy on the salt. 

Finally, the Phantom tears off a bit with one of the rusted forks Raoul’d found.

”Hmm. Not terrible.”

Raoul smiles. “Your compliments are truly to die for.”

”Thank you,” the Phantom says, “perhaps you will die for them. Go scrub the kitchen clean. I’ll most likely-“

”Kill me afterwards?” Raoul laughs. 

“Unless you’d prefer I do it now?” 

“Alright! Alright.”


	6. Chapter 6

The breakfast, actually, is surprisingly good.

It is also more than Erik's eaten at once for a good while.

He devours it the second he knows the vicomte isn't looking, and begins, for once, to eagerly await another day.

It continues like this, Erik is embarrassed to say, for a surprisingly long time.

He barks orders, always with a threat, and the pathetic failure once known as a vicomte obeys them, always cheerful.

He's bound with rope at all times, of course, except for shopping excursions, even during the few hours of sleep Erik allows him each night.

It wouldn't do, really, to make him work all hours of the day.

Erik does have some morals, after all.

(Morals are considerably older than most people believe, just like blue jeans. Morals existed before glamour and even taste. Some say they existed before taxes, but others respond that morals are the reason taxes exist.)

He would never, not in thousands upon thousands of millennia, admit it, but he thinks the vicomte is beginning to grow a little on him. Less and less does he think and dream and hope of Christine, less and less does he torment the ballet rats and spook the stagehands. Instead, he stays in his lair, pounding thunderous tunes on the organ or scribbling frantic notes on sheets of paper, sneaking glances at the vicomte working.

It's a little intriguing, how the man slaves all day and much of each night, yet still smiles and eagerly awaits the next order. Only rarely does he sarcastically bite back with hissing words and a sharp retort.

Clearly he must love Christine very much if he's willing to do all that for the price of Erik letting her go.

The thought sends a strange, bitter jolt through him.

Erik dismisses it as jealousy; obviously, he is angered at the thought of someone else daring to love his Angel.

 _But if she loves him too_ , that infuriating voice in his head whispers, _he deserves her more than you could ever._

 _She deserves him more than I could ever_.

That last thought twists something inside Erik's stomach and he winces as he watches the vicomte work over dinner from where he's perched on the organ.

No, no. He doesn't care about the silly boy, doesn't care at all. He's meaningless, really. All that matters is Christine and his music.

That's all.

Christine.

Christine should be his only focus, not this- this blubbering buffoon, this lily-livered fop, this mongrel of high society, this soft, gaping codfish of a man, this, this, this-

Erik begins to lose sleep.

Not that he isn't used to things like that. Oh, no, no, he's quite used to spending days without sleep, staying up night after night, working on music and keeping away nightmares.

But never, no, never like this.

It isn't nightmares or music that keep him awake now. 

It's the vicomte.

The irritating, infuriating, ridiculous vicomte.

It's his smile, Erik decides. He always smiles. If he stopped smiling, all of Erik’s problems would be solved. 

It’s these very things he’s thinking of one night, draped over a couch in the Louis-Philippe room while Raoul polishes the tables.

“You work very hard, Monsieur,” he calls. “Yet your sweet Christine has not come back.”

The vicomte doesn’t respond, but Erik sees his grasp on the rag grow tighter and his jaw clench.

“Do you not fear she has forgotten you?”

”Do you not fear the same?”

”You’re quite arrogant, Monsieur.”

”Through necessity, yes, I suppose.”

Erik grins.

And then whatever little moment they were having stops.

”Tell me, good sir,” the vicomte says. “What is your name?” 

“I am the Phantom of the Opera,” Erik scoffs.

”Yes, that’s your title,” the fop says. “But really, you must have some sort of name I could call you by. It does grow tiring, constantly thinking of you as the Phantom.”

Erik loses what little sanity he had.

That must be it, of course.

That must be why he does it. 

He’s insane, that explains it all.

But he does not feel insane, not as he says it. 

“Erik.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Erik,” Raoul says.

”Yes.”

”It’s a nice name. Suits you.”

”You have an odd view on things, Monsieur,” the Phantom- _Erik_ \- laughs.

Raoul shrugs. “A little oddity keeps the spirits up.”

”I suppose it does, Vicomte.”

”You may call me Raoul, you know.”

”I will call you what I please, Monsieur.”

”It sounds like the soup’s boiling,” Raoul says, standing up and tucking his cleaning rag away. “Shall I go set the table?”

”Yes, go. And I’ll most likely kill you after lunch,” Erik says.

Yet as Raoul leaves to take the soup off the stove, he swears to God he can hear the faint whisper of Erik saying his name, testing it. “ _Raoul_.” 

It has been, Raoul notices, four months since he last saw Christine on that fateful night of Don Juan. He keeps a record on the wall next to the mattress he sleeps on, scratching off each night according to the clocks throughout the lair.

Four months without Christine.

He really does hope she’s alright without him.

Raoul misses her, very deeply and very painfully. The Phantom doesn’t let him go into the rest of the opera house, and Christine has not come back to save him, as she promised. 

Erik is already at the table when Raoul puts the soup down. 

“What is it?”

”Chicken soup. My servants used to make this for me whenever I was sick, but it’s even better when in good health. Enjoy!”

Raoul smiles.

He always smiles. It helps him pretend that he’s truly happy.

Not that he isn’t happy. He wouldn’t change the choice he made four months ago for the world. 

He just wants to see Christine again.

Erik coughs. “Vicomte? The bowls?”

”Ah, yes. My apologies, Erik.”

The name feels beautiful when he speaks it, but the look on Erik’s face is even better. 

If Raoul didn’t know better, he’d say that Erik blushed, maybe even smiled.

Perhaps that should be his new goal in life, if he is to remain here forever. Make Erik smile as much as possible.

Raoul sets out the bowls and spoons, still preoccupied with thought.

If anyone deserves to smile, he thinks, it would be Erik. He never smiles, and never seems to have had proper joy in his life.

The soup is good.

Erik sighs a little when he tastes it, and his shoulders relax.

Relaxation is a good look on him.

_Everything is a good look on him._

The sudden thought sends a shiver down Raoul’s spine as he eats.

It’s not wrong, of course. On the non-masked side, Erik is a very handsome man.

Raoul has seen what lies beneath the mask.

But he’s seen worse things, from when he sailed. Even the famed deformity of the Phantom of the Opera could not compare to some of the things that haunt him at night.

It gave Christine nightmares to see it, though, and she would wake, terrified and desperate in the middle of the night.

He does miss Christine dearly. 

Which is why it comes as such a shock when Erik announces that evening that they are going to watch Hannibal be performed again, with Christine as Elisa.

”Really?” he asks, hardly daring to breathe.

”Yes,” Erik sighs. “You’ll sit in Box Five with me. Here, put these on, you can’t wear those to the opera.”

Raoul thinks his clothes, presumably stolen from the costume department after his old clothes got too stained to wear, are perfectly fine, but Erik points at the multiple dirt stains and sends Raoul to the washroom to become presentable.

It’s the first time in months he’s worn a full suit, and Raoul will admit it feels a bit odd, but it’s nice to look respectable again.

And sitting in Box 5, Erik seated by his side... magnificent.

The sensation of being around so many people and looking _nice_ for once is almost overwhelming.

Seeing Christine again definitely is.

She notices him during the Act 3 aria.

She meets his eyes first, and nearly breaks character.

Christine sees Erik next, and she does, if only for a split second before recovering.

When the opera ends, Raoul leaps to his feet and applauds wildly as Christine bows.

When he turns around, Erik is gone.

Without Erik to give him an order, he feels a bit losr.

But one never knows when oppurtunities will return, so he head to Christine’s dressing room, grabbing flowers from the managers, exactly as he did ten months ago.

He’s barely opened the door before something hits him.

”Raoul! Oh, Raoul, it is you! Raoul, Raoul, you’re alright! I thought you were dead!” she cries, sobbing. “Meg said she saw you at the market, but I thought it couldn’t be you because you have servants for that sort of thing, and I knew that dreadful Phantom would never let you go! Oh, Raoul, never leave again!”

”I missed you too, Little Lotte,” Raoul says softly, embracing Christine. “It’s alright. I’m here, darling, I’m here. I’m alright, Christine, I promise. I swear it on my life. It’s alright.”

They hold each other tightly for what must be hours. 

Finally, Raoul clears his throat. “Now, tell me darling. Are you alright? Can you move?”

”Can I move?” Christine repeats. “My sweet Raoul, you’re alive! If you wanted I could fly.”

”I will not ask such things of you,” Raoul chuckles, “my sweet Christine.”

”But you promise you’re safe?” Christine asks, leading him over to the bed, where they sit together. “He hasn’t- he hasn’t hurt you?”

”If he ever does, you will be the first to know,” Raoul promises. “But he has not, and I am here, and I will not leave, darling.”

She smiles, and Raoul’s heart flutters.

He just sits there and holds her, and dreams for a moment that everything will be alright, until he glances over at the mirror and sees those distinctive yellow eyes glaring back at him.

Raoul only holds Christine tighter and rocks her gently.

The golden eyes vanish into the shadow.

Christine tells him of everything that has happened in the opera house since he left, all the details about her becoming the new Prima Donna, and how Meg is the primary dancer of the ballet corps, how Carlotta is actually quite different and much quieter since Piangi’s death.

Raoul tells her nothing of his time with Erik, only holds her ever closer and whispers reassurances of his safety and love for her. 

The clock tells him it is nearly one o’ clock in the morning by the time Christine falls asleep in his arms.

He tucks her into the bed gently, pressing a careful kiss to her forehead. 

“Sleep well,” he murmurs, “and dream of peace, sweet Christine.”

He then tugs open the mirror and cautiously walks down the passageway.

He knows this path well, has cleaned it multiple times, and smiles at the memories.

The boat is on the near shore when he arrives at the lake.

Intriguing.

Erik must have gone down a different way from the mirror.

He climbs in and quickly rows himself across, tying the boat easily to a post installed for that exact purpose.

Then Raoul notices something.

The air smells of wine. 

Carefully, he makes his way into the house, treading as lightly as possible over the floors.

He has almost crossed the threshold into the Louis-Philippe room when the lasso wraps around him.

It’s a sloppy throw, really. The rope barely grazes his neck and settles loosely around his shoulders and arms instead.

”Wha-“ he begins, but a familiar voice and a sob cuts him off. 

“She truly loves you,” Erik cries, slumped onto the couch with many- too many- bottles surrounding him. “And you truly love her too, so you might be truly happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, no matter what the storybooks say!”

Raoul detangles the lasso and steps out of it, walking cautiously towards him.

”So you’re drunk?”

”What a wonderful observation,” Erik snaps. “Just be thankful I haven’t brought out the morphine yet.”

”And why?” Raoul asks, something in his stomach twisting. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

He takes another step closer.

”Because she loves you?”

”That’s a terrible excuse and you know it, Erik. Were that the case, you would’ve already done this months ago.”

"Fine, you devil!" Erik yells. "Because you love her! You love her deeply and truly and with all your heart and mind and you care for her more than you could ever care for some demon like me."

Something deep inside of Raoul clicks into place, finally.

Oh.

Oh!

_Oh._

Erik glares up at him and clearly takes his silence as a rejection, turning away and nursing a half-full bottle morosely.

The words hang on the tip of Raoul's tongue before he finally spits them out.

"You're right. I can't care for you. Not like this, at least. You look foul as sin. Come, I'll draw up a bath. And you know what would make you feel better? Killing me in the morning."

Even drunk out of his mind, Erik appears to recognize those words.

"I thought- I thought you wanted to live," he mutters, taking Raoul's outstretched hand.

"Hmm, yes, I do suppose being alive would be significantly more pleasant than being dead. But either way, I can either die a relatively happy man, or I can live to see great disappointment, and I really have no preference."

"But if I killed you, you'd be dead."

He nods and lifts Erik up.

He's surprisingly light- a little too light- and Raoul resolves to give him a slightly bigger portion at meals.

"That is indeed how killing people works," Raoul says, walking over to the washroom and setting Erik down gently in the tub.

"But I don't want you to die. I don't want to hurt you."

"That's very sweet of you. Now, uh- sorry. I really don't know how to phrase this, but, um, you've got wine all over your mask and I suppose I really should take it off, so- may I?"

Erik grabs Raoul's hand as he reaches for the mask, fingers tight, yet still somehow gentle.

"Promise you won't run?"

"I won't."

"Because you said you wouldn't when you swore yourself into servitude, is that why?"

"That too," Raoul whispers, "but also because- and you must excuse any stumbling here on my part, as this is all very new to me as well, having only realized this a few minutes ago- because I adore you, my dearest Erik."

Erik sits for a moment as the water begins to pool around him in the tub, processing this information.

"Is that better than caring?"

"It depends on who you ask. Some amount of caring is indeed involved in adoration, but personally, I'd say it's infinitely better. After all, I've been caring for you these past four months, but I adore you now, and I would most definitely say it feels much better."

Raoul gently tucks away all thoughts of Christine in his mind and his promise to not leave that he rather immediately broke, and instead places his other hand on top of Erik's.

"You can take the mask off," Erik murmurs. "If you promise you won't be scared."

"I promise."

Erik lets go of his hand, and cautiously, oh so cautiously, Raoul slides the mask off, putting it neatly at the side of the tub.

It did not look like a terribly comfortable thing to wear, and he could see slight imprints from the wire that held it in place.

(Not all masks are as comfortable as some books would claim them to be.)

"You're still here."

"I am."

"I didn't expect you to actually stay," Erik says.

"I am nothing if not a man of my word. And I am actually very little else, except for the wonderful occurrence of my being in desperate love with two equally brilliant people."

"You love me?"

"Yes, Erik, I do. And you know, even if you don't believe it," Raoul smiles, reaching for a bar of soap, "I really do think you're quite beautiful, both with and without the mask."

Erik shakes his head slightly, shuddering softly as Raoul begins to slide off the wig as well before beginning to remove the now ruined suit he's still in.

"No, really," he continues. "I'm not the most poetic of people, and my tutors did use to say that I'd be hopeless at any attempt I made at lyrical endeavors, but every second I begin to realize more and more that I love about you. You have the most wonderful smile, did you know? You should smile more."

Raoul goes on like this, carefully and gently scrubbing off each spill of wine until Erik dozes off in his arms.

He looks very peaceful when he sleeps, like all the stress melts from his shoulders.

It's beautiful, very beautiful.

"I do not envy you the headache you will have when you awake, dearest," Raoul laughs, before cautiously drying Erik with a towel and carrying him to the bed in the room he'd always been told to never enter.

Raoul thinks he falls asleep like that, with Erik peacefully resting on the bed and him on the floor, holding him hand.

It's not the most comfortable of positions, but Raoul finds it worth it.

It is absolutely worth it.

Until he wakes up.


End file.
